con 

F&Ss 


M 

A  = 

Al 

_^  o 

0  i 

^=  t— 

0  = 

=  33 

0  = 

^^^  33 

3  ^ 

=  O 

8  ^ 

^^^  1 — 

2  = 

9  = 

3  = 

^^  3> 

2  ^ 

— H 

'^       ^^^ 

^^»   ^ 

2 

^ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 


Mrs.   Lloyd  E.   Phillips 


«mth(''.l! 


A  Song  of  the  Guns 

By  Gilbert  Frankau,  R.S.A. 


THE  NEW  POETRY  SERIES 


HOUQHTON  MIFFI.IN  COMPANT 

Boston  and  New  York 


X 


N 


®!)e  Btta  |)octrp  Scries 

PUBLISHED  BY 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


IRRADIATIONS.    SAND  AND  SPRAY.    John  Gould 
Fletcher. 

SOME  IMAGIST  POETS. 

JAPANESE     LYRICS.       Translated    by    Lafcadio 
Hkarn. 

AFTERNOONS  OF  APRIL.    Grace  Hazard  Conk- 
ling. 

THE  CLOISTER:  A  VERSE  DRAMA.     Emile  Ver- 

HAEREN. 

INTERFLOW.     Geoffrkv  C.  Faber. 

STILLWATER   PASTORALS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
Paul  Shivell. 

IDOLS,     Walter  Conrad  Arensberg. 

TURNS    AND    MOVIES,    AND    OTHER   TALES    IN 
VERSE.    Conrad  Aiken. 

ROADS.    Grace  Fallow  Norton. 

GOBLINS  AND  PAGODAS.  John  Gould  Flbtchkr. 

SOME  IMAGIST  POETS,    1916. 

A  SONG  OF  THE  GUNS.    Gilbert  Frankau. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  GUNS 


X 


A  SONG  OF  THE  GUNS 


BY 


GILBERT  FRANKAU,  R.S.A. 


BOSTON    AND    NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

dbe  miber^iDe  preiSjs  Cambtibgc 
1916 


COPYRIGHT,    1916,    BY   GILBERT   FRANKAU 
ALL   RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  April  iqib 


PR 

NOTE 

y/  Song  of  the  Guns  was  written  under  what  are  prob- 
ably the  most  remarkable  conditions  in  which  a  poem  has 
ever  been  composed.  The  author,  who  is  now  serving  in 
Flanders,  was  present  at  the  battle  of  Loos,  and  during  a 
lull  in  the  fighting  —  when  the  gunners,  who  had  been  sleep- 
less for  five  nights,  were  resting  like  tired  dogs  under  their 
guns — he  jotted  down  the  main  theme  of  the  poem.  After 
the  battle  the  artillery  brigade  to  which  he  was  attached  was 
ordered  to  Ypres,  and  it  was  during  the  long  trench  warfare 
in  this  district,  within  sight  of  the  ruined  tower  of  Ypres 
Cathedral,  that  the  poem  was  finally  completed.  The  last 
three  stanzas  were  written  at  midnight  in  Brigade  Head- 
quarters with  the  Gefipan  shells  screaming  over  into  the 
ruined  town. 


876695 


CONTENTS 

.-  ■  ♦ 

The  Voice  of  the  Slaves  -     i 

Headquarters  4 

Gun-Teams  6 

Eyes  in  the  Air  9 

Signals  I2 

The  Observers  14 

Ammunition  Column  17 

The  Voice  of  the  Guns  20 


X 


A  SONG  OF  THE  GUNS 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SLAVES 

We  are  the  slaves  of  the  guns. 

Serfs  to  the  dominant  things ; 
Ours  are  the  eyes  and  the  ears. 

And  the  brains  of  their  messagings. 

Ours  are  the  hands  that  unleash 

The  blind  gods  that  raven  by  night. 
The  lords  of  the  terror  at  dawn 

When  the  landmarks  are  blotted  from  sight 
By  the  thick  curdled  churnings  of  smoke. 

When  the  lost  trenches  crumble  and  spout 
Into  loud  roaring  fountains  of  flame  ; 

Till,  their  prison  walls  down,  with  a  shout 
And  a  cheer,  ordered  line  after  line. 

Black  specks  on  the  barrage  of  gray 
That  we  lift — as  they  leap — to  the  clock. 

Our  infantry  storm  to  the  fray. 

[  •  ] 


A  SONG  OF  THE  GUNS 

These  are  our  masters,  the  slim 

Grim  muzzles  that  irk  in  the  pit; 
That  chafe  for  the  rushing  of  wheels. 

For  the  teams  plunging  madly  to  bit 
As  the  gunners  wing  down  to  unkey. 

For  the  trails  sweeping  half-circle-right. 
For  the  six  breech-blocks  clashing  as  one 

To  a  target  viewed  clear  on  the  sight  — 
Gray  masses  the  shells  search  and  tear 

Into  fragments  that  bunch  as  they  run  — 
For  the  hour  of  the  red  battle-harvest. 

The  dream  of  the  slaves  of  the  gun! 


We  have  bartered  our  souls  to  the  guns ; 

Every  fibre  of  body  and  brain 
Have  we  trained  to  them,  chained  to  them.   Serfs  ? 

Aye  !  but  proud  of  the  weight  of  our  chain. 
Of  our  backs  that  are  bowed  to  their  workings. 

To  hide  them  and  guard  and  disguise. 
Of  our  ears  that  are  deafened  with  service. 

Of  hands  that  are  scarred,  and  of  eyes 
Grown  hawklike  with  marking  their  prey. 

Of  wings  that  are  slashed  as  with  swords 
When  we  hover,  the  turn  of  a  blade 

From  the  death  that  is  sweet  to  our  lords. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SLAVES 

By  the  ears  and  the  eyes  and  the  brain. 

By  the  I'mibs  and  the  hands  and  the  wings. 

We  are  slaves  to  our  masters  the  guns ; 
But  their  slaves  are  the  masters  of  kings  ! 


HEADQUARTERS 

A  LEAGUE  and  a  league  from  the  trenches,  from 
the  traversed  maze  of  the  lines,  — 

Where  daylong  the  sniper  watches  and  daylong  the 
bullet  whines. 

And  the  cratered  earth  is  in  travail  with  mines  and 
with  countermines,  — 

Here,  where   haply  some  woman  dreamed,   (are 

those  her  roses  that  bloom 
In  the  garden  beyond  the  windows  of  my  littered 

working-room  ?) 
We  have  decked  the  map  for  our  masters  as  a  bride 

is  decked  for  the  groom. 

Here,  on  each  numbered  lettered  square, — cross- 
road and  mound  and  wire. 

Loophole,  redoubt,  and  emplacement,  are  the  tar- 
gets their  mouths  desire, — 

Gay  with  purples  and  browns  and  blues,  have  we 
traced  them  their  arcs  of  fire. 

[4] 


HEADQUARTERS 

And  ever  the  type-keys  clatter ;  and  ever  our  keen 

wires  bring 
Word  from  the  watchers   a-crouch   below,  word 

from  the  watchers  a-wing ; 
And  ever  we  hear  the  distant  growl  of  our  hid  guns 

thundering ; 

Hear  it  hardly,  and  turn  again  to  our  maps,  where 
the  trench-lines  crawl, 

Red  on  the  gray  and  each  with  a  sign  for  the  ran- 
ging shrapnel's  fall  — 

Snakes  that  our  masters  shall  scotch  at  dawn,  as  is 
written  here  on  the  wall. 

« 

For  the  weeks  of  our  waiting  draw  to  a  close.  .  .  . 
There  is  scarcely  a  leaf  astir 

In  the  garden  beyond  my  windows  where  the  twi- 
light shadows  blur 

The  blaze  of  some  woman's  roses.  .  .  . 

"  Bombardment  orders,  sir.'* 


GUN-TEAMS 

Their  rugs  are  sodden,  their  heads  are  down,  their 
tails  are  turned  to  the  storm. 
(Would  you  know  them,  you  that  groomed  them 
in  the  sleek  fat  days  of  peace, — 
When  the  tiles  rang  to  their  pawings  in  the  lighted 
stalls  and  warm,  — 
Now  the  foul  clay  cakes  on  breeching-strap  and 
clogs  the  quick-release  ?) 

The  blown  rain  stings,  there  is  never  a  star,  the 
tracks  are  rivers  of  slime. 
(You  must  harness  up  by  guesswork  with  a  fail- 
ing torch  for  light. 
Instep-deep  in  unmade  standings,  for  it 's  active- 
service  time. 
And  our  resting  weeks  are  over,  and  we  move 
the  guns  to-night.) 

The  iron  tires  slither,  the  traces  sag;  their  blind 
hooves  stumble  and  slide; 

[6] 


GUN-TEAMS 

They  are  war-worn,  they  are  weary,  soaked  with 
sweat  and  sopped  with  rain. 
(You  must  hold  them,  you  must  help  them,  swing 
your  lead  and  centre  wide 
Where   the   greasy   granite   pave  peters  out  to 
squelching  drain.) 

There  is  shrapnel  bursting  a  mile  in  front  on  the 
road  that  the  guns  must  take: 
(You  are  nervous,  you  are  thoughtful,  you  are 
shifting  in  your  seat. 
As  you  watch  the  ragged  feathers  flicker  orange 
flame  and  break)  — 
But  the  teams  are  pulling  steady  down  the  bat- 
tered village  street. 

You  have  shod  them  cold,  and  their  coats  are  long, 
and  their  bellies  gray  with  the  mud; 
They  have  done  with  gloss  and  polish,  but  the 
fighting  heart 's  unbroke. 
We,  who  saw  them  hobbling  after  us  down  white 
roads  flecked  with  blood. 
Patient,  wondering  why  we  left  them,  till   we 
lost  them  in  the  smoke; 

[7] 


A  SONG  OF  THE  GUNS 

Who  have  felt  them  shiver  between   our  knees, 
when  the  shells  rain  black  from  the  skies. 
When  the  bursting  terrors  find  us  and  the  lines 
stampede  as  one ; 
Who  have  watched  the  pierced  limbs  quiver  and 
the  pain  in  stricken  eyes. 
Know  the  worth  of  humble  servants,  foolish- 
faithful  to  their  gun ! 


;     EYES  IN  THE  AIR 

Our  guns  are  a  league  behind  us,  our  target  a  mile 

below. 
And  there's  never  a  cloud  to  blind  us  from  the 
it  haunts  of  our  lurking  foe  — 

Sunk  pit  whence  his  shrapnel  tore  us,  support-trench 

crest-concealed. 
As  clear  as  the  charts  before  us,  his  ramparts  lie 
j  revealed. 

His  panicked  watchers  spy  us,  a  droning  threat  in 

the  void; 
Their  whistling  shells  outfly  us  —  puff  upon  puff, 

deployed 
Across  the  green  beneath  us,  across  the  flanking 

In  fume  and  fire  to  sheathe  us  and  balk  us  of  our 
prey. 

Below,  beyond,  above  her. 

Their  iron  web  is  spun  ! 
Flicked  but  unsnared  we  hover. 

Edged  planes  against  the  sun : 

[9] 


A  SONG  OF  THE  GUNS 

.  Eyes  in  the  air  above  his  lair, 
The  hawks  that  guide  the  gun ! 
. . .  *^ 

No  word   from  earth    may  reach  us  save,  white 
against  the  ground. 

The  strips  outspread  to  teach  us  whose  ears  are 
deaf  to  sound : 

But  down  the  winds  that  sear  us,  athwart  our  en- 
gine's shriek. 

We  send  —  and  know  they  hear  us,  the  ranging 
guns  we  speak. 

Our  visored  eyeballs  show  us  their  answering  pen- 
nant, broke 

Eight  thousand  feet  below  us,  a  whirl  of  flame- 
stabbed  smoke  — 

The  burst  that  hangs  to  guide  us,  while  numbed 
gloved  fingers  tap 

From  wireless  key  beside  us  the  circles  of  the  map. 

Line  —  target  —  short  or  over  — 
Comes,  plain  as  clock-hands  run. 

Word  from  the  birds  that  hover, 
Unblinded,  tail  to  sun  — 

Word  out  of  air  to  range  them  fair. 
From  hawks  that  guide  the  gun ! 
[  10] 


EYES  IN  THE  AIR 

Your  flying  shells  have  failed  you,  your  landward 

guns  are  dumb  : 
Since  earth  hath  naught  availed  you,  these  skies  be 

open !   Come, 
Where,  wild  to  meet  and  mate  you,  flame  in  their 

beaks  for  breath. 
Black  doves!  the  white  hawks  wait  you  on  the 

wind-tossed  boughs  of  death. 
These  boughs  be  cold  without  you,  our  hearts  are 

hot  for  this. 
Our  wings   shall  beat  about   you,   our   scorching 

breath  shall  kiss : 
Till,  fraught  with  that  we  gave  you,  fulfilled  of 

our  desire. 
You  bank,  —  too  late  to  save  you  from  biting  beaks 

of  fire, — 

Turn  sideways  from  your  lover. 
Shudder  and  swerve  and  run. 

Tilt ;  stagger ;  and  plunge  over 
Ablaze  against  the  sun,  — 

Doves  dead  in  air,  who  clomb  to  dare 
The  hawks  that  guide  the  gun  ! 


SIGNALS 

The  hot  wax  drips  from  the  flares 
On  the  scrawled  pink  forms  that  litter 
The  bench  where  he  sits ;  the  glitter 
Of  stars  is  framed  by  the  sandbags  atop    of  the 
dug-out  stairs. 
And  the  lagging  watch-hands  creep ; 
And  his  cloaked  mates  murmur  in  sleep,  — 
Forms  he  can  wake  with  a  kick,  — 
And  he  hears,  as  he  plays  with  the  pressel-switch, 
the  strapped  receiver  click 
On  his  ear  that  listens,  listens ; 
And  the  candle-flicker  glistens 
On  the  rounded  brass  of  the  switch-board  where 
the  red  wires  cluster  thick. 

Wires  from  the  earth,  from  the  air ; 
Wires  that  whisper  and  chatter 
At  night,  when  the  trench-rats  patter 
And  nibble  among  the  rations  and  scuttle  back  to 
their  lair; 

[12] 


SIGNALS 

Wires  that  are  never  at  rest, — 
For  the  linesmen  tap  them  and  test. 
And  ever  they  tremble  with  tone :  — 
And  he  knows  from  a  hundred  signals  the  buzzing 
call  of  his  own. 
The  breaks  and  the  vibrant  stresses, — - 
The  Z  and  the  G  and  the  S's 
jThat  call  his  hand  to  the  answering  key  and  his 
mouth  to  the  microphone. 

For  always  the  laid  guns  fret 
On  the  words  that  his  mouth  shall  utter. 
When  rifle  and  Maxim  stutter 
And  the  rockets  volley  to  starward  from  the  spurt- 
ing parapet ; 
And  always  his  ear  must  hark 
To  the  voices  out  of  the  dark, — 
For  the  whisper  over  the  wire. 
From  the  bombed  and  the  battered  trenches  where 
the  wounded  moan  in  the  mire,  — 
For  a  sign  to  waken  the  thunder 
Which  shatters  the  night  in  sunder 
With  the  flash  of  the  leaping  muzzles  and  the  beat 
of  battery-fire. 


THE  OBSERVERS 

Ere  the  last  light  that  leaps  the  night  has  hung 
and  shone  and  died. 
While  yet  the  breast-high  fog  of  dawn  is  swathed 
about  the  plain. 
By  hedge  and  track  our  slaves  go  back,  the  waning 
stars  for  guide. 
Eyes  of  our  mouths;  the  mists  have  cleared,  the 
guns  would  speak  again  ! 

Faint  on  the  ears  that  strain  to  hear,  their  orders 
trickle  down 
"  Degrees  —  twelve  —  left  of  zero  line  —  cor- 
rector one  three  eight  — 
Three  thousand."  .   .  .  Shift  our  trails  and  lift  the 
muzzles  that  shall  drown 
The  rifle's  idle  chatter  when  our  sendings  de- 
tonate. 

Sending  or  still,  these  serve  our  will ;  the  hidden 
eyes  that  mark 

[  H] 


THE  OBSERVERS 

From  gutted  farm,  from  laddered  tree  that  scans 
the  furrowed  slope. 
From  coigns  of  slag  whose  pit-ropes  sag  on  bur- 
rowed ways  and  dark, 

In  open  trench  where  sandbags  hold  the  steady 
periscope. 

Waking,   they  know  the   instant  foe,  the  bullets 
phutting  by. 
The  blurring  lens,  the  sodden  map,  the  wires 
that  leak  or  break  ! 
Sleeping,  they  dream  of  shells  that  scream  adown 
a  sunless  sky  — 
And  the  splinters  patter  round  them  in  their 
dug-outs  as  they  wake. 

Not  theirs,  the  wet  glad  bayonet,  the  red  and  rac- 
ing hour. 
The  rush   that   clears   the   bombing-post   with 
knife  and  hand-grenade ; 
Not  theirs  the  zest  when,  steel  to  breast,  the  last 
survivors  cower, — 
Yet  can  ye  hold  the  ground  ye  won,  save  these 
be  there  to  aid  ? 

[  15  ] 


A  SONG  OF  THE  GUNS 

These,  that  observe  the  shell's  far  swerve,  these  of 
the  quiet  voice. 
That  bids  "go  on,"  repeats  the  range,  corrects 
for  fuse  or  line  .  .  . 
Though  dour  the  task  their  masters  ask,  what  room 
for  thought  or  choice  ? 
This  is  ours  by  right  of  service,  heedless  gift  of 
youthful  eyne ! 


Careless  they  give  while  yet  they  live ;   the  dead 
we  tasked  too  sore 
Bear  witness  we  were  naught  begrudged  of  riches 
or  of  youth ; 

Careless  they  gave;  across  their  grave  our  calling 
salvoes  roar. 
And  those  we  maimed  come  back  to  us  in  proof 
our  dead  speak  truth ! 


AMMUNITION  COLUMN 

/  am  only  a  cog  in  a  giant  machine ,  a  link  of  an  end- 
less chain :  — 
^nd  the  rounds  are  drawn ^  and  the  rounds  are  fired, 

and  the  empties  return  again; 
Railroad,  lorry,  and  limber ;  battery,  column,  and  park ; 
To  the  shelf  where  the  set  fuse  waits  the  breech,  from 

the  quay  where  the  shells  embark. 
We  have  watered  and  fed,  and  eaten  our  beef;  the 

long  dull  day  drags  by. 
As  I  sit  here  watching  our  **  Archibalds  "  strafing 

an  empty  sky; 
'Puff  and  flash  on  the  far-off  blue  round  the  speck 

one  guesses  the  plane  — 
^Smoke  and  spark  of  the  gun-machine  that  is  fed 

by  the  endless  chain. 


\ 


I  am  only  a  cog  in  a  giant  machine,  a  little  link 

in  the  chain. 
Waiting  a  word  from  the  wagon-lines  that  the  guns 

are  hungry  again :  — 

[•7] 


/ 


A  SONG  OF  THE  GUNS 

Column-wagon  to  battery-wagon^  and  battery-wagon  to 

gun ; 
To  the  loader  kneeling  'twixt  trail  and  wheel  from  the 

shops  where  the  steam-lathes  run. 
There  's  a  lone  mule  braying  against  the  line  where 

the  mud  cakes  fetlock-deep  ! 
There  's  a  lone  soul  humming  a  hint  of  a  song  in 

the  barn  where  the  drivers  sleep ; 
And  I  hear  the  pash  of  the  orderly's  horse  as  he 

canters  him  down  the  lane  — 
Another  cog  in  the  gun-machine,  a  link  in  the 

selfsame  chain. 

I  am  only  a  cog  in  a  giant  machine,  but  a  vital  link 
in  the  chain ; 

And  the  Captain  has  sent  from  the  wagon-line  to 
fill  his  wagons  again;  — 

From  wagon-limber  to gunpit  dump;  from  loader  s  fore- 
arm at  breech 

To  the  working  party  that  tJielts  away  when  the  shrap- 
nel bullets  screech.  — 

So  the  restless  section  pulls  out  once  more  in  col- 
umn of  route  from  the  right. 

At  the  tail  of  a  blood-red  afternoon ;  so  the  flux  of 
another  night 

[  i8] 


AMMUNITION  COLUMN 

Bears  back  the  wagons  we  fill  at  dawn  to  the  sleep- 
ing column  again   .   .   . 

Cog  on  cpg  in  the  gun-machine,  link  on  link  in 
the  chain! 


K 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  GUNS 

We  are  the  guns,  and  your   masters !  Saw  ye  our 

flashes  ? 
Heard  ye  the  scream  of  our  shells  in  the  night,  and 

the  shuddering  crashes  ? 
Saw  ye  our  work  by  the  roadside,  the  gray  wounded 

lying, 
Moaning  to  God  that  he  made  them  —  the  maimed 

and  the  dying? 

Husbands  or  sons. 
Fathers  or  lovers,  we  break  them !  We   are   the 

guns ! 

We  are  the  guns  and  ye  serve  us !   Dare  ye  grow 

weary. 
Steadfast  at  nighttime,  at  noontime ;  or  waking, 

when  dawn  winds  blow  dreary 
Over  the  fields  and  the  flats  and  the  reeds  of  the 

barrier  water, 
To  wait  on  the  hour  of  our  choosing,  the  minute 

decided  for  slaughter? 

[20] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  GUNS 

Swift  the  clock  runs ; 
Yes,  to  the  ultimate  second.   Stand  to  your  guns ! 

We  are  the  guns  and  we  need  you  !   Here  in  the 

timbered 
Pits  that  are  screened  by  the  crest  and  the  copse 

where  at  dusk  ye  unlimbered. 
Pits  that  one  found  us  —  and,  finding,  gave  life  (did 

he  flinch  from  the  giving  ?) ; 
Laboured  by  moonlight  when  wraith  of  the  dead 

brooded  yet  o'er  the  living. 
Ere  with  the  sun's 
Rising  the  sorrowful  spirit  abandoned  its  guns. 

Who  but  the  guns  shall  avenge  him  ?  Strip  us  for 
action ! 

Load  us  and  lay  to  the  centremost  hair  of  the  dial- 
sight's  refraction. 

Set  your  quick  hands  to  our  levers  to  compass  the 
sped  soul's  assoiling ; 

Brace  your  taut  limbs  to  the  shock  when  the  thrust 
of  the  barrel  recoiling 

Deafens  and  stuns! 

Vengeance  is  ours  for  our  servants.    Trust  ye  the 
guns! 

[a.  ] 


A  SONG  OF  THE  GUNS 

Least  of  our  bond-slaves  or  greatest,  grudge   ye 

the  burden  ? 
Hard   is  this  service  of  ours  which  has  only  our 

service  for  guerdon : 
Grow  the  limbs  lax,  and  unsteady  the  hands,  which 

aforetime  we  trusted ; 
Flawed,  the  clear  crystal  of  sight;   and  the  clean 

steel  of  hardihood  rusted  ? 
Dominant  ones. 
Are  we  not  tried  serfs  and  proven  —  true  to  our  guns  ? 

Te  are  the  guns!  Are   we  worthy  ?  Shall  not  these 

speak  for  us. 
Out  of  the  woods  where  the  torn  trees  are  slashed  with 

the  vain  bolts  that  seek  for  us, 
Thunder  of  batteries  firing   in   unison,  swish  of  shell 

flighting, 
missing  that  rushes  to  silence  and  breaks  to  the  thud 

of  alighting  ? 

Death  that  outruns 
Horseman  and  foot?  Arewe  justified?  Answer,  O  guns! 

Yea !  by  your  works  are  ye  justified, — toil  unrelieved ; 
Manifold  labours,  coordinate  each  to  the  sending 
achieved; 

[    22    ] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  GUNS 

Discipline,  not  of  the  feet  but  the  soul,  unremit- 
ting, unfeigned; 

Tortures  unholy  by  flame  and  by  maiming,  known, 
faced,  and  disdained; 

Courage  that  shuns 

Only  foolhardiness ;  —  even  by  these  are  ye  worthy 
your  guns! 

Wherefore  —  and  unto  ye  only — power  has  been 

given  ; 
Yea!  beyond  man,  over  men,  over  desolate  cities 

and  riven  ; 
Yea  !  beyond  space,  over  earth  and  the  seas  and  the 

sky's  high  dominions; 
Yea!  beyond  time,  over  Hell  and  the  fiends  and 

the  Death-Angel's  pinions! 
Vigilant  ones. 
Loose  them,  and  shatter,  and  spare  not.  We  are 

the  guns! 


THE  END 


®l)c  BtViersibe  ^\tii 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


BOOKS  ON  THE  GREAT  WAR 

Published  by 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company 

THRILLING  stories  of  real  adventure;  graphic 
pictures  of  the  fighting  by  men  who  actually 
fought ;  notable  volumes  dealing  with  the  larger 
aspects  of  the  struggle;  in  short,  books  for  every  taste 
and  on  every  phase  of  the  war  may  be  found  in  these 
pages. 

Personal  Narratives 


With  the 
French 


With  the 
British 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 

E.  MORLAE 
An  incomparable  account  of  the  great  offensive  of  September, 
1915;  graphic,  thrilling,  and  filled  with  the  Foreign  Legion's 
own  dare-devil  spirit.     With  frontispiece. 

A  HILLTOP  ON  THE  MARNE 

MILDRED  ALDRICH 
"  Perhaps  the  straightest  and  most  charming  book  written  on 
a  single  aspect  of  the  war." — The  JSTew  Republic.  Illustrated. 
^1.25  net. 

THE    FIRST    HUNDRED    THOUSAND 

IAN   HAY 

The  story  of  a  British  volunteer.  Called  the  greatest  booh  0/ 
the  war  by  the  leading  English  papers.  With  frontispiece. 
51.50  net. 

KITCHENER'S   MOB 

JAMES   NORMAN  HALL 
The  graphic  and  uncensored  account  of  the  adventures  of 
an  American  volunteer  in   Kitchener's  Army.     Illustrated. 
$1.25  net. 


In  Belgium 


BELGIUM'S  AGONY 

EMILE  VERHAEREN 

The  story  of  what  Belgium  has  endured  and  how  she  has  en- 
dured it,  told  by  her  greatest  poet.     ^1.25  net. 

THE    LOG    OF   A    NON-COMBATANT 

HORACE  GREEN 

"  A  lively,  readable  narrative  of  personal  experiences,  thrill- 
ing, painful,  humorous." — CImrcIunatt.  Illustrated.  #1.25  net. 


,f 


TO 


BACK 


RUHLEBEN    AND 

GEOFFREY  PYKE 
in  (jermany-!     ^j^g  story  of  a  young  Englishman's  escape  from  a  detention 
I     camp  and  flight  across  Germany.  One  of  the  most  picturesque 
V    and  thrilling  narratives  of  the  war.     Illustrated.    $1.50  net. 


In  Italy 


With  the 
Austrians 


THE  WORLD  DECISION 

ROBERT  HERRICK 
Contains  a  graphic,  first-hand  account  of  Italy's  entrance  into 
the  war,  as  well  as  a  remarkable  analysis  of  the  larger  aspects 
of  the  struggle.    $1.25  net. 

FOUR    WEEKS   IN    THE    TRENCHES 

FRITZ  KREISLER 
"  Filled  with  memorable  scenes  and  striking  descriptions.    It 
will  stand  as  a  picture  of  war." — New  York  Globe.  Illustrated. 
$1.00  net. 


With  the 
Russians 


With  the 
Japanese 


On  the 
Ocean 


DAY    BY  DAY  WITH    THE    RUSSIAN 

ARMY 

BERNARD  PAR£S 

"A  wonderful  narrative.  When  the  history  of  this  great  war 
comes  to  be  written  it  will  be  an  invaluable  document."  — 
London  Mornitig  Post.     Illustrated.    $2.50  net. 

THE    FALL   OF   TSINGTAU 

JEFFERSON  JONES 

A  remarkable  study  of  war  and  diplomacy  in  the  Orient  that 
"should  be  read  by  every  American  who  is  interested  in  the 
future  of  our  status  in  the  Far  East."  —  New  York  Tribune. 
Illustrated.    $1.75  net. 

THE    LUSITANIA'S   LAST   VOYAGE 

C.  E.  LAURIAT,  Jr. 

"  Not  only  a  document  of  historic  interest,  but  a  thrilling  nar- 
rative of  the  greatest  disaster  of  its  kind."  —  The  Dial.  Illus- 
trated,   ^i.oo  net. 


Causes  and  Results  of  the  War 


THE  DIPLOMACY  OF  THE  V^AR  OF 
1914  :  The  Beginnings  of  the  War 
ELLERY  C.  STOWELL 
"  The  most  complete  statement  that  has  been  given."  —  Lord 
Bryce.  "  The  whole  tangled  web  of  diplomacy  is  made  crys- 
tal clear  in  this  really  statesmanlike  book." — New  York  Times. 
$5.00  net. 

PAN-GERMANISM 

ROLAND  G.  USHER 

The  war  has  borne  out  in  a  remarkable  way  the  accuracy  of 
this  analysis  of  the  game  of  world  politics  that  preceded  the 
resort  to  arms. 


Diplomatic  ^ 


Financial 


The 

Diplomatic 
Aspects 


The 

Military 
Aspects 


THIRTY  YEARS 

SIR  THOMAS  BARCLAY 

The  story  of  the  forming  of  the  Entente  between  France  and 
England  told  by  the  man  largely  responsible  for  its  existence. 
^3.50  net. 

THE  RULING  CASTE  AND  FRENZIED 
TRADE  IN  GERMANY 

MAURICE  MILLIOUD 

Shows  the  part  played  by  the  over-extension  of  German  trade 
in  bringing  on  the  war.     $1.00  net. 

THE   AUDACIOUS   WAR 

C.  W.  BARRON 
An  analysis  of  the  commercial  and  financial  aspects  of  the 
war  by  one  of  America's  keenest  business  men.     "  Not  only 
of  prime  importance  but  of  breathless  interest."  —  Philadel- 
phia Public  Ledger.     $1.00  net. 

America  and  the  War 


THE  CHALLENGE  OF  THE  FUTURE 

ROLAND  G.  USHER 

"The  most  cogent  analysis  of  national  prospects  and  possibil- 
ities any  student  of  world  politics  has  yet  written."  —  Boston 
Herald.    $1.75  net. 

ARE   WE    READY? 

H.   D.  WHEELER 
A  sane  constructive  study  of  our  unpreparedness  for  war. 
"  You  have  performed  a  real  service  to  the  American  people." 
—  Henry  T.  Stimson,  Former  Secretary  of  War.    5i-So  net. 


The  Moral 
Aspects 


Fiction 


Poetry 


Biograpliy 


History 


THE    ROAD   TOWARD    PEACE 

CHARLES  W.  ELIOT 

"  Few  writers  have  discussed  the  way  and  means  of  establish- 
ing peace  and  friendly  relations  among  nations  with  more 
sanity  and  far-reaching  estimate  of  values."  —  Detroit  Free 
Press,    ^i.oo  net. 

GERMANY   VERSUS   CIVILIZATION 

WILLIAM  ROSCOE  THAYER 

A  biting  indictment  of  Prussianism  and  an  analysis  of  the 
meaning  of  the  war  to  America.    $i.oo  net. 

COUNTER-CURRENTS 

AGNES  REPPLIER 

Dealing  mainly  with  issues  arising  from  the  war,  these  essays 
will  take  their  place  among  the  most  brilliant  of  contempo- 
*■    rary  comment.     $1.25  net. 

Miscellaneous 

THE   FIELD  OF   HONOUR 

H.  FIELDING-HALL 

Short  stories  dealing  with  the  spirit  of  England  at  war.  "Ad- 
mirably written  without  one  superfluous  word  to  mar  the  di- 
rectness of  their  appeal." — Neiv  York  Times.    ^1.50  net. 

A   SONG   OF  THE   GUNS 

GILBERT   FRANKAU 
Vivid,  powerful  verse  written  to  the  roar  of  guns  on  the  west- 
ern front,  by  a  son  of  Frank  Danby,  the  novelist. 

KITCHENER,    ORGANIZER    OF 
VICTORY 

HAROLD  BEGBIE 
The  first  full  and  satisfactory  account  of  the  life  and  deeds  of 
England's  great  War  Minister.  Suppressed  in  England  for  its 
frankness.     Illustrated.     ^1.25. 

IS   WAR   DIMINISHING? 

FREDERICK  ADAMS  WOOD,  M.D.,  AND 
ALEXANDER  BALTZLEY 

The  first  complete  and  authoritative  study  of  the  question  of 
whether  warfare  has  increased  or  diminished  in  the  last  five 
centuries.    $1.00  net. 


HOUGHTON 

MIFFUN 
COMPANY 


BOSTON 

AND 

NEW  YORFC 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-40m-7,'56(C790s4)444 


THB  LIBRARY 
^ERSITY  OF  CALIFOKiSlil 
LOS  AJVGELES 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


■'^■:^^'^'^^^^- 


^t\ 


lii, 

p 


55f^«ic 


AA  000  382  932  2 


PR 

6011 

F35s 


